Strong
by Louise Hargadon
Summary: TAG2015, but any universe fits. Introspective oneshot set pre-IR, shortly after the death of Lucille Tracy. Scott tries to make sense of his grief, and find a way to move forward after losing his mother.


_**A/N:**__ As some of you know, I lost my Mum quite suddenly in February. Three months ago today, in fact. This is for her, with all my love. _

_(Also there's not much fanon/canon about when/how the boys lost their mother in __**TAG**__, so I'm just taking it that they lost her to an unspecified illness when __**Scott**__ was in his very early 20s. The details don't really matter. Losing your Mum at any age, in any way, is the worst.)_

_**Disclaimer: **__**Thunderbirds**__ belongs to the __**Andersons**__. The new version belongs to someone else. I'm sure they won't mind me borrowing Scott for an hour or two._

**Strong**

They tell you there's no wrong way to grieve. They tell you that whatever your reaction is, however your body and brain process it, it's the right way. That everyone is different, every single loss is different, because each person means something slightly different to everyone they know. Grieving is normal. We all have to face it at some time or other.

Do they tell you this because it's the truth? Or do they tell you this the way a parent swears that removing a Band-Aid won't hurt, just before they rip it off and you scream in pain? A nice little lie that forces you to endure the things that you ordinarily would never have the guts to face.

I dunno who 'they' are, but they're either bare-faced liars or they've never lost anyone - because even after three months, nothing about this feels normal.

It isn't like I'm a big one for tears. Sure, I cried as soon as it happened. I'd just lost my Mom, for Pete's sake, I'm not a goddam robot. But within an hour I was strong again. No more tears. They weren't gonna bring her back. I had four brothers and a Dad to look out for, I couldn't afford to think about my reaction. Didn't want to, more accurately.

So many people told me how strong I was, how much Dad would appreciate it. How I had to stay strong for Dad's sake.

'Strong' is such a strange word, isn't it? It doesn't mean what you think it means, when people tell you you're strong. I can bench-press one and a half times my own bodyweight, but that's not being strong, that's being able to lift something real heavy.

"You're so strong, Scott. You're dealing with this so well."

Dealing with what? Dealing with the fact I'm never gonna see my Mom again? Dealing with my youngest brother having nightmares about losing her, and him coming to me for comfort because he doesn't want to upset Dad? Dealing with my second youngest brother crying himself to sleep because all he wants is one more cuddle from Mom? My middle brother, already the most introverted, drawing in deeper and deeper into his science books to see if there's anything in the vastness of the universe that will help him make some sense of this? Or my closest brother in both age and friendship, whose beautiful artwork has been either non-existent or black and hopeless since she died? Dealing with my Dad, who is frantically trying to keep a lid on everything because he wants to be present for his boys - he has to be there for his boys, or Mom would have his hide? Dealing with all of it?

The truth is, I don't think I'm dealing with any of it. It feels like I'm living through a high-speed car crash, when you feel the end is coming, when you've completely lost control of your car and you're sat in the driver's seat, waiting for Death, wishing there was more that you could say or do, but being completely powerless to do anything but sit there and take the hits. You relax your body as much as you can to soften the blows. Some strange part of your mind is calm. Prepared. Just sorry it has to be this way. Not being able to say goodbye.

I said goodbye. I was there. I held her hand. Told her I loved her. Kept begging her to wake up even an hour after she had gone. I remember her hands, the way it felt when she stopped holding on. The emptiness inside when I squeezed her hand and she didn't squeeze back. I remember kissing her forehead, running my hand through her hair. Her skin was already cold. I kept looking back as I left the hospital, just in case she'd changed her mind and wasn't dead after all. She hadn't. I still didn't feel as though I'd said goodbye. Maybe it was because I'd said it and she hadn't. She still hasn't said goodbye, dammit, so she can't be gone.

The days that followed were all a blur of adrenaline. So many visitors. Everyone was so sorry. Everyone really loved her. Everyone kept telling me what a character she was, as though I didn't know her. People who had barely spoken to her in years suddenly turned up with their tears and their condolences. People didn't see me cry. People saw me making coffee for all the visitors and decided that I was coping. I wasn't coping, I was making coffee. My Mom was dead and I was making coffee for people who hadn't been there for her, like it was all okay. It wasn't okay. None of it was okay. I wanted to throw the damn coffee over them, scream at them to get out and leave us alone, tell them to take their crocodile tears and their fake pity and stick it. I couldn't. I was being strong. I was coping. I was being strong for Dad, because someone had to be, and I was the closest. Virgil and John were both home on compassionate leave from College, and taking care of Gordon and Alan. We all had our jobs to do.

The funeral was one of the strangest things I'd ever experienced. Kinda like watching a movie of your life except you're still in it. It felt like half the crowd wanted to make sure I was being strong for the family, and half the crowd wanted to see me lose it and break down in front of everyone. I didn't want to give either half the satisfaction. This was my mother's funeral. I was going to handle it the way she'd brought me up to handle people. With a welcoming smile and a thank you. Thanks for being here. Thanks for supporting us. Thanks. Thank you. Thanks. Thanks for what? Are any of you gonna bring her back? No? Then thanks for nothing, you voyeuristic bastards, coming here to get off on our pain.

If it hadn't been for Kayo keeping a tight hold of my hand during the service, I don't know what I'd have done. She was hurting too, and so fiercely private she wouldn't even let us, the closest thing she has to family, know how she really felt. Since Mom and Dad took her in as a kid, her and Mom were so close, the only two girls against all those boys. None of us envied them, yet none of us were allowed to get away with anything, either. I remembered one time that Gordon twanged Kayo's bra strap the same day she got her first one, and thought it was hilarious until Kayo punched him in the face. When he went crying to Mom, she checked his eye to make sure no damage had been done, kissed the rapidly-forming bruise, and then told him it served him right for being a pest, and that perhaps in future he'd be more careful when playing around girls. He's never been near Kayo's bra since, so he must've learned something.

Some days, it's hard. I'll see kids with their Moms and feel unreasonably jealous. I'll see people on the street smoking, or fighting, or being cruel to each other, and I'll think 'why are you alive and my Mom isn't?' It's a mentality I quickly shake. Death is as impartial as Life. It's not something everyone asks for, it's not something you can opt into or out of, and being annoyed that a lot of people older than I am still have both parents is just silly. They can't help it any more than I can. Sometimes I get impatient when my brothers or my Dad get upset. It isn't helping. "It isn't going to bring her back, it's just going to make you feel worse," I tell them. I sound too sharp. I try to make it up to them, but it's too late. I've said it and I can't take it back. I'm angry with them that they can cry and I can't. I want to. People say that crying is the first step to healing, and I want to heal. I want this Mom-sized hole in my heart to close over and leave numb scar tissue, so I never have to feel sad about it again.

Most days, I can honestly say I don't miss her. I don't even feel guilty for not missing her. I don't miss her because my brain has decided she's on holiday, or that she's just missed returning my calls. The memory of her is still so alive. I remember her voice, I remember her laugh, I remember her touch. She hated photographs and videos, but there were a precious few that I found and watched religiously, hearing her hearty peal of laughter rip through the air and forcing me to laugh too. She's alive in my brothers. Gordon has inherited that laugh; that laugh, that sense of humour, that zest for life and dogged determination to not let anything beat him. Virgil inherited her looks, her colouring, her gentleness and her artistic streak. John, her love of the stars and her ability to see situations from an angle nobody else could have thought of. Alan - well, he's still figuring things out for himself, but he certainly has Mom's tenacity and sense of the ridiculous. Both of which help him deal with all his problems the way she would have - head on, assured of her own victory.

Me? I dunno. I don't look like Mom. I'm Jeff Tracy minus thirty years. Everyone comments on how much like my Dad I am. I'm proud of that. My Dad is a great man, an incredible father and he was a devoted, loving husband. Qualities I want to inherit, and who knows, maybe get to use later in my life. I'm not artistic like Mom. I'm not silly and full of mischief like Mom. My head isn't always in the clouds and the stars, like Mom's was.

But perhaps I've got her strength. She refused to let anything beat her. She refused to ever back down from a fight. Even when, deep down, she knew she was dying, she refused to accept it. She insisted she would be all right, even though she knew she wouldn't. She told me she loved me the day before she died. I knew at that moment, it would be the last time she ever said that to me. It ripped through my heart, a genuine, physical pain that literally bent me double. The nurse promised me she wouldn't suffer, she wouldn't be in pain for a moment, she'd just slip away. It seemed a strange ending for someone so full of life, that they'd be alive one moment and not the next. She didn't go out with a bang, or a whimper, but gently and peacefully, with the strength and dignity we all knew and loved her for.

Yes, I'm strong. I'll always be strong. Because it's what my family needs from me. Because it's who my Mom was, and it's who she taught me to be. And as long as I'm alive, I refuse to let her die. Because I'm a strong, stubborn badass like that. Because I'm just like Mom, too.

**THE END**


End file.
